


blood under the bridge

by troubles



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:38:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6695791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubles/pseuds/troubles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven months before, Ronan had taught Gansey how to throw a hook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood under the bridge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [momitchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momitchi/gifts).



> Happy Raven King release week!
> 
> This story was written for a dear friend, who I don't think has seen the finished product. Because this was actually written last May, there are details of this that are not compliant with The Raven King, or the Raven Cycle. It seems like I let a whole calendar year pass between this and my last fic, so I'm rusty. Oops.
> 
> ONE LAST THING: since this is a story about Ronan teaching Gansey how to fight, there is some violence. I know it's mentioned in the tags, but I wanted to warn for it one additional time. It's not particularly graphic, but, fighting is described in detail.

When Ronan suggested he teach Gansey to fight he never expected Gansey to take him up on the offer.

But he means it. Ronan Lynch doesn’t make promises he doesn’t intend to keep. Ronan knows there are circles where Gansey’s fine-tuned charm and family money are nothing but a target. You remove Gansey from Henrietta and you have this: a seemingly wiry frame, a posh accent, and a pair of glasses that cost more than what most of the townsfolk could get for their cars. At Aglionby Gansey’s treated with all the appeasing smiles and sweaty handshakes befitting of a visiting dignitary – it's not just the brave that fortune seems to favour; it's the power, the looks, and the small fortune of his own. The rules won’t break, but they’d sure as hell bend for Richard Gansey III. And Monmouth, well Monmouth is just his tower, the invulnerable castle, and Gansey is a king for whom Ronan would happily kneel.

So here they are: Gansey, Ronan, and Noah are descending the stairs to get to the ground floor of Monmouth Manufacturing. The sun flooding through the windows only emphasizes the absence of the omnipresent dust, the dirty floor completely out of sight. The once empty space has since been filled with blue mats, not unlike what you’d find at the gym or in the basement of the Barns. It’s a lot like that – down to the black punching bag that hangs from a low beam, strung up by an expertly hung chain. In the corner there’s a bench, a few pairs of boxing gloves, varying sizes, and plastic Gatorade bottles that Ronan had the foresight to fill before rousing his housemates downstairs just after noon on a Saturday morning. It’s a real Rocky IV set-up, and Ronan is more than a little bit proud.

“Is it to your liking, your majesty?” Ronan gives an exaggerated bow while Noah, on the penultimate step behind Gansey, snickers.

“Where’d you get these?” Gansey asks, skeptically.

“You don’t need to know.”

And Ronan knows Gansey’s thinking it’s a typical, patented Lynch response. It’s as drab as any but what’s the difference if they’re from Henrietta’s local sporting store or the dark hollow of Ronan’s mind? The fact is Ronan Lynch always gets what he wants, what Gansey needs.

“It looks like you robbed a Target.”

“It looks good, Ronan,” Noah says as he kicks his sock-clad toes in the ridges between adjacent mats. “Really good.”

“Noah’s right,” and that’s from Gansey, who’s slowly making his way toward Ronan. He’s stopped at the punching bag, caressing it lightly with his right hand. “I didn’t think you’d go all out like this, to be honest.”

“Yeah, well. I had time, I guess,” Ronan shrugs. It’s not a lie. “Noah, you joining us? I’ve got a few pairs of gloves here.”

Unlike Gansey, who wears the school’s patented grey sweatpants, crest on the upper left thigh, and a t-shirt with AGLIONBY ROWING emblazoned across the chest, or Ronan, who’s in nothing but thin black basketball shorts from his brief stint on the school team, Noah’s in the same thing he always wears, even on their day off, so the question doesn’t exactly dignify a response.

“I’m just here for the free show!” Noah replies cheekily.

Gansey and Noah make their way over to the bench to stand beside Ronan, and as Noah surveys the supplies, Gansey starts trying on the mitts. Ronan has his own pair; all black with gold threading and his name embroidered in the piping at the cuff, a gift from his father a week before his death. Gansey himself chooses a red pair, white at the palms. He puts them on, bumps his own knuckles and says “Good to go, Ro.”

“Not like that. Gloves off, give me your wrists, you jerk.”

“What for?”

“Don’t wanna crush those diplomat’s hands. Gotta tape them – that’ll tighten your fists beneath the glove. Plus, if you fuck up real good, they’ll stop your fingers from breaking over each other.”

Gansey looks vaguely queasy at the thought of his fingers mangled and bloody. That’s good, Ronan thinks, he should look unsettled, though Ronan’s not sure if it’s at the thought of the gory possibility, or the insinuation that Gansey might be less than utterly perfect at something.

“You’re making me think twice about this, buddy.”

“Shut up and give me your wrist,” Ronan says as Noah cackles by his shoulder.

Gansey hands over his right hand first and Ronan takes the tape, putting Gansey’s thumb through the loop and moving the adhesive around the back of his hand, wrapping it thrice around the wrist, and three times around the hand as well. Ronan worries his lip between his teeth, not wanting to fuck up with Gansey’s eyes tracing his every motion. It’s like clockwork, and Ronan’s done this a million times, but only ever to himself. It’s strangely intimate, sliding his hands over Gansey’s, circling around the wrist this way, that, smooth it on down. Tape around the back of the thumb, three Xs between the fingers now - Gansey, spread the pinky and the ring first, go through, the middle and the ring, the middle and the index, once again around the hand. Gansey’s compliant like he never is and Ronan’s hyper-aware of his own sweaty fingers. He imagines Noah’s breath behind his back but feels nothing. Back of the thumb, and tape straight down, three times around. Gansey’s hands are smaller than his so with the excess tape he marks another X around the back of the hand, and secures it around the wrist.

“Left.”

Gansey leaves his left arm outstretched and Ronan grasps his fingers, getting to work and faster now that Gansey’s studious gaze is transfixed on his newly minted binding, green eyes carefully examining the fastening and the way it masks his slender fingers up to the last knuckle.

“That looks legit,” Noah says, admiring the handiwork.

“Well, it’s not my first rodeo.” Ronan finishes with Gansey’s left hand and drops it, wiping his own palms on the top of his thighs, on the thin, thin shorts.

“And now?”

“Now you get close to the punching bag, Gans. It’s not going to bite.”

***

The thing is Gansey treats the bag like it might. Bite, that is.

“I think you need to get closer than that.” It’s Noah this time, reminding them of his presence.

“Right. Yes. So, feet apart, then?”

“Remember: hit with your body, not just your fist.”

 

Gansey lines up directly in front of the heavyweight, elbows up and fists slightly separated. There isn’t enough distance between them. He looks stiff and uncharacteristically self-conscious, like it’s his first day on the job and he’s a child wearing his father’s suit. Ronan wants to tell him something comforting, but his bedside manner has always been for shit. Instead he moves to stand directly behind Gansey, not so close that he’s breathing down Gansey’s neck, but close enough that he takes notice of the taut inflexibility of his shoulder blades.

“Man, you need to fucking relax. I’m not grading you on this shit.” Ronan puts his hands on Gansey’s hips, steadying his body as if it’ll start vibrating any second now with nervous energy. He kicks a bare foot out at Gansey’s left, then his right, boot.

“Feet further apart, make ‘em level with your shoulders and bend your knees slightly – you’re not actually a geriatric, Gansey, I know you can do it. Arms not bad, but don’t focus on equidistance, just do what feels natural. And when you hit the bag, for godsakes’ punch straight and hit flush on the knuckles. You go upward and you’ll sprain your wrist and I swear to God, I’m not taking notes for you.”

“As if you’d take notes to begin with.” Gansey throws his first punch and the bag ricochets slightly, met with the dull sound of the glove on the leather and Noah’s approving applause.

“Alright, not bad. When you’re going for a body shot, come down low on the bag. Don’t flare your elbows so much either.”

Gansey hits the bag once, twice, three times. His punch isn’t half bad. Ronan personally thinks he’s exerting himself too soon, like he’s expecting the bag to throw in the white towel in the first five minutes. Ronan’s had enough experience to know that boxing’s more like romancing than a race – it needs the flirting, a dance, the build-up, and then you move in for the kill.

He hits it again.

“90 degrees! Elbow at 90 degrees.” 

“Like this?” He’s still going at the same pace, still making the same mistakes.

“Are you fishing for compliments? I said not bad.”

Gansey stops abruptly.

“I need more instruction than that.”

“What do you want me to say, man? It’s not bad. Your jabs are strong, but your posture’s for shit. I get it, this crap feels elementary, but we all learned this way, and what you need to learn is to keep your body loose. You’re not getting any action in the club if you’re still like that, so when you throw a hook, don’t forget to move your feet with it, or you’ll get caught out of position. And shit, cool it a bit. The rate you’re going will kill your stamina, but it’’s not bad for a beginner.”

Ronan knows that gets to Gansey because after that he flexes his back, does a half-roll with his head, and springs up on his feet. He starts slow, a punch here, another to the opposite side. Body shot. Gansey looks like he spent hours watching tutorials on youtube, which would have been just like him, really.

“Look where you’re punching,” Ronan calls out.

His hands are moving like they make logistical sense, finally. Feign with the left hand when you punch with the right. Four jabs in quick succession. In, out; in, out. Ronan loses track of himself, he doesn’t know if Noah is still in the room, or if the scene exists in actuality or in his own fabricated dream-world. He tracks time to the tune of Gansey’s labored breaths, and it doesn’t move.

After minutes, hours, who-the-fuck-knows how long, Gansey breaks the relative silence.

“How am I doing now?” he says, and his words come out between measured intervals. Conserving energy, Ronan notes. He feels a surge of pride.

“Like I might not be embarrassed to tell people I taught you to box.”

Gansey huffs out a laugh.

“It’d be the only thing you ever taught me.”

“Insolence” Ronan roars jokingly. “For that you get the deadweight coming at you – treat it like the son of a bitch who just insulted your sister; it’s a heavy motherfucker, too. A body, it’s solid, and it wants a collision with yours. When it comes, you move the fuck to the other side.”

“Thought you said it wouldn’t hurt me?” Gansey grunts.

Ronan gives it a push toward Gansey.

“I never said that.”

Gansey’s agile from what’s likely been at least a year of conditioning. He’s a rower; Ronan knows strength lies beneath the sinewy muscle. He moves smoothly to the right, ducking his head down with his shoulder, and hitting the black bag with a left shot mid-figure, he follows it with one to the right. Gansey’s taking to it like a fish in water despite the straight line of his mouth. He looks good. He can’t help wondering how Gansey feels. Ronan fucking loves fighting: everything about it. He loves the stretch in his legs, the way he needs to crack his back, loves the soaking sheen of his own skin after a good round with the heavy bag. He wants that phantom ache in his knuckles when he sheds the gloves, removes the tape. But he grew up with it, the designated hour in the basement with his brothers, with his dad, cramming as many commands as his adolescent brain can retain, the praise that came with a knockout. If Niall Lynch taught his two oldest sons anything, it was that love exists in its purest form in the imagination. In the physical world, it’s nothing but a bloodsport. You don't find love in a fight, but you find passion, ambition, heat, and sometimes it's equally as heady. But that’s something Gansey doesn’t know, has yet to discover, and Ronan wonders if Gansey’s form instinctively craves that burn as well, even if his mind doesn’t. The sight of Gansey, - who belongs in suits, in his private school uniform - stripped down to sweatpants, to this incomprehensible raw being, is nothing less than indulgent, and the beneficiary isn’t just Gansey’s body allowed a chance to uncoil, but Ronan who gets to observe that unraveling, the saccharine release of excess energy.

Gansey lets off and hugs the bag still. His body sways for a few seconds, managing the brunt of the bag, and then he pulls away. He wipes the back of his right hand across his forehead and strips off his damp shirt, hauling it over his head with two hands behind his back and tossing it in Noah’s direction. Noah squawks, and Gansey’s too winded to provide a coherent retort. He’s gulping in his breaths, body saturated in sweat. Ronan feels waterlogged.

“So,” Gansey says after he’s caught his breath. “I thought _you_ were gonna teach me to fight?”

“Yep,” Ronan pops the ‘p,’ “Just did.”

“Don’t give me attitude,” Gansey states, leveling Ronan with a look that’s as good a challenge as any. A gaze that says he could conquer the world and Ronan with it. “I meant you and me.”

In the background, Noah starts a steady, low chant of “fight, fight, fight.”

Ronan smiles like the devil. The sight of Gansey, visceral and unwound, may have temporarily caught him off guard, but he doesn’t miss a beat.

“You really think you can take me?”

Ronan doesn’t hear Gansey’s response because he walks away first.

 

***

 School the next day is a solitary affair and Ronan considers skipping altogether, despite already being midway through the first period. Beside him, Gansey is talking to a handsome boy with dusty blond hair and an aristocratic face; his clothes betray him as anything but. Aristocratic, that is. But Ronan’s noticed him before, if only because he seems to have as few friends as Ronan himself.

But Gansey is talking to him as if he’s trying to fashion a new partner in crime, and Ronan’s gut churns uncomfortably when he spots the exact moment the Boy’s expression turns from trepidation to confusion to hesitant inclusion. Times like these Ronan wishes Noah shared first period with them, but he must be in chemistry, or still in bed, or wherever Noah is at 9:08am.

They came to school in separate cars. Gansey hasn’t said a word to him; has barely looked him in the eye except to give him a withering glare when Ronan made to prop his feet on Gansey’s leather satchel. The heat of the gaze had Ronan unceremoniously dropping his legs.

Ronan leaves after the bell signals the end of Latin.

 

***

 When Gansey comes home the first thing he says is, “Where were you in lit? Did you skip school?”

“There was nothing keeping me there.”

Ronan wishes he could bite back his words. They speak to something more raw, more vulnerable than Ronan would’ve liked to disclose. There’s not much Ronan has left after the death of Niall Lynch. Ronan wouldn't know what to list after Gansey.

“You can’t afford to get kicked out.”

“I think you’ll find there’s nothing that I ‘can’t afford’” 

“I can't always be looking after you Ronan.”

Ronan knows that’s a lie. Gansey doesn’t leave anything finished, much less broken, and Ronan’s fragmented in so many different pieces that Gansey’s saviour complex could never walk away, not even when his body exits the room.

***

The next day is much of the same, and once again Ronan doesn’t know why he bothered to attend school today in the first place. Maybe for something to do. Maybe for this hour in Latin, where he watches Gansey pretend like he gets it. With the way his eyes keep boring imaginary holes into Gansey’s head, he thinks maybe he’s conducting a Study in Private a School Princed: Accounts of a Boy, Calculated. Everything about the public persona is carefully crafted, right down to the fake expression of comprehension.

Ronan watches him partner up with the fair-haired scholarship kid, again. Partner up may be the wrong choice of words, but Ronan’s not really paying attention to what’s going on in class, anyway. More likely, Gansey’s asking him for help. Making use of the connection he initiated the day before. He’s responding in kind, seemingly sharing whatever it is Gansey’s asked for. There’s still a hint of hesitation. The Boy’s features are just as fine and strangely alluring as they were yesterday, but this time his hair is styled differently, covering a bruise at the side of his forehead. It disappears into his hairline. Ronan saw it because he glimpsed a fading purple as the Boy reached into his backpack, his hair involuntarily falling to reveal it. Ronan’s had similar marks; tokens from brawls with brothers and with bastards from Kavinsky’s gang. At the time, he wore them like a prize.

One look at this kid tells him everything he needs to know. He’s not a fighter, not in the physical sense. Ronan wonders if Gansey sees the secret he knows the Boy will never willingly share.

Belatedly, Ronan remembers his classmate’s name is Adam.

Adam Parrish. He’s second best in Latin, and top of the class in everything else.

***

Ronan enacts the silent clause often, but it’s a treatment he hates to receive.

These days 1136 Monmouth Manufacturing feels fraught with tension, like its sturdy metal beams might creak with pressure. They’re understaffed for a production. Gansey’s the understudy thrust into a constant oscillation between playing Ronan’s father and spouse. There's a war where nothings being said. The three bodies that inhabit it make it feel both overcrowded and empty, especially like this, when Gansey and Ronan try their hardest to step around each other. It’d be fucking easier if Gansey’s bed wasn’t in the fucking living room, Ronan thinks. 

His mother once whispered, in her gentle, dulcet, tone, “a man and his wife should never go to bed angry,” but Ronan and Gansey aren’t a couple and he can’t recall a time in his childhood where his parents ever fought.

But maybe that’s why Gansey can’t sleep. Ronan can hear the sheets rustling from his own bed where he lies doodling in what should be his English notebook, and he can pinpoint the exact moment when Gansey’s brain must have said “fuck it,” and willed his body to get up, maybe grab a coat. He knows Gansey sleeps just as bad as he does, even if they have different reasons.

What he doesn’t hear is Noah knock.

“I didn’t bother to.”

“What did you do, creep to the door? God, Noah, you’re a fucking phantom.”

“Your thoughts are so loud, you wouldn’t have heard my footsteps anyway.” 

“Whatever.”

“Gansey didn’t leave.”

“Okay.”

“He’s downstairs, you know?”

“No, I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“Your fight is stupid.”

“You say that about all our fights.”

“Well, they’re all stupid.”

“Did you come here just to say that? Because you’re wasting your breath. It’s 2 in the goddamn morning, pretty sure we all have better things to do. Go to sleep.” 

“Can’t.”

Ronan lets out an angry groan that’s no better described than childish.

“Look. All I’m saying is Gansey’s waiting for you, and you should go to him. He wanted you to take him seriously, man. You didn’t, and now you’re tip-toeing around each other. All I’m saying is maybe you should chase him this time.”

The thing is: Noah isn’t wrong. Ronan knows it, even if he won’t say it.

“Go the fuck to sleep, Noah.”

*** 

Ronan throws on a black t-shirt before he leaves his room. When he finally makes his way downstairs, he sees Gansey sitting on the elevated bench in their makeshift gym , legs crossing at the shins, and head down. He looks like he’s reading the lines in his palm.

Ronan doesn’t know how to break the ice. It feels like it has fermented itself in glaciers around Gansey, spawning in all the space that separates them. Ronan doesn’t know if he should chip away at it slowly with an icepick or just fucking torch it.

“Noah, told me you’d be here,” Ronan sounds like an idiot even to his own ears.

“That’s funny. He told me you’d come.” 

“Great.”

“Great.”

“This is fucking stupid,” Ronan explodes. “I don’t know what I expected. You’re fine, right? You have a new charity case... what’s his name? Parrish? Great, you can save him from the fucking stairs he keeps falling down.”

“This has nothing to do with Adam.”

“Did I say it did? No, Gansey. It has to do with you, you and your fucking pet projects. If it’s not Glendower, it’s Ronan Lynch, right? Glendower is evasive, that’s fine, but god, you don’t _like_ it when they talk back. That’s what this is about, the fact I didn’t want to fight you? Fucking grow up, things don’t always go your way.”

His intention is to walk back up the stairs, to pick up the BMW’s keys from the ash tray by the door, and find a white Mitsubishi lined with knives; with a driver that has dark eyes hidden beneath a pair of dark shades, the tilt of them signals a race. Gansey’s voice pulls him back.

“I’ve never known you to walk away from a problem, Lynch.” It’s a good fucking line, Ronan will give him that, but the way Gansey’s voice wavers on _I_ diminishes the bite.

“Well, I’ve never known you to be one.”

When their eyes meet Ronan can feel his resolve start to crack.

“It’s not about me getting what I want,” Gansey intones. Then, more firmly, “You said you were going to teach me how to throw a hook. You kept your promise. But you and I both know that jabbing at a bag isn’t the same as human flesh; in that way I’m still dependent, left unprotected. And I want assurance for every scenario. So,” now he straightens his back. Ronan feels like he could write a thesis on Gansey’s body language when he speaks to people, having been subject to it so many times. “While I appreciate the cardio exercise from a few days ago, I was sort of hoping to fight someone who was going to fight back.”

“Okay.” Ronan wipes his hands on his basketball shorts.

“Okay?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t know what he expects Gansey to say next.  Maybe hit him. Maybe comment on how he thought this’d be harder. Ronan doesn’t want to hear it; he knows he’s always been a soft touch for Gansey.

What comes next almost forces an involuntary laugh.

“You don’t have your gloves on.”

“You wanted a real fight. You think in the streets you’ll have your gloves? You think someone like K is gonna wait for you to wrap your knuckles?”

That shuts Gansey up quick. Ronan knows Gansey doesn’t take it as chastisement. No, Gansey’s deadset on doing this like he does everything else: right.

***

They’re circling each other on the blue mat.

Gansey gives a nervous laugh.

Ronan doesn’t need to think about it to know that if left to their own time and devices, neither will ever throw the first punch. He can feel that in his bones. The idea of fighting Gansey is almost unthinkable, and yet, here they are, Ronan contemplating the first swing, and Gansey back in his ROWING shirt.

“You’re thinking too much.”

“You haven’t hit me yet.”

“Neither have you.”

“Any last advice?”

“Yeah. Don’t think about how much it will hurt.”

“Wha-”

Gansey’s question is cut off because that’s when Ronan throws his first punch. It hits Gansey, unblocked, square in the ribs, and knocks the breath out of him. He doubles over.

“You’re leaving your head unprotected,” Ronan reminds him.

Gansey comes back at him with fervor, but Ronan blocks his every shot. For all the poise he seemed to have dancing around the bag, Gansey lacks any form of grace as he stalks closer to Ronan’s body. His knuckles hit Ronan’s, and he can see Gansey wince.

“Gansey, I told you: don’t think about how much it will hurt.”

They parry back and forth, Ronan reminding Gansey to block. He doesn’t mention how he’s going easy on him; Gansey doesn’t appear to lose himself the same way Ronan would if this were an evenly-matched brawl, he doesn’t have the speed, the skill, or the spirit, not in this.

It’s a right hook that finally gets him, to the corner of the mouth. It has only half the force of Declan’s hits, but it does the trick of disorienting him for a moment. If this were a real fight, then Gansey’s wasting valuable time. He seems to stand back and stand still as Ronan lifts the back of his hand to wipe the blood that wells up, smearing it along his jaw. Ronan doesn't take it personally, he's a little proud. But he realizes Gansey’s faltering and he's unsure if Gansey’s taken aback by his own power, or transfixed by the juxtaposition of dark red on his pale, stubbled skin. It's already blood under the bridge. 

His preoccupation is to Ronan’s advantage.

And then Ronan’s pushing back, aiming low. Two left hooks thwarted, a body shot that hits its target, a jab that’s deflected. Ronan thinks he’s ending it swiftly by swiping Gansey’s legs out from under him, but Gansey brings Ronan down with him, and then they’re grappling on the floor. It only takes about a minute before Ronan has Gansey pinned under him, both left breathless.

Gansey taps the knuckles of his outstretched right arm against the mat.

Ronan can feel the smirk creep back onto his face.

“Had enough?”

“That’s it,” Gansey pants. “I’m done.”

Ronan lifts his hands off Gansey’s wrists and his upper body away from Gansey’s, sits back on his haunches. He hears Gansey’s strangled moan before he realizes he feels what is unmistakably an erection.

For a few seconds, it’s awkward.

“Fighting triggers most of the same endorphins,” Ronan says it, and doesn’t know why. It sounds uncannily like something Gansey would say.

“So you can tell I don’t do this often.”

“Fuck or fight?”

“Both. Either.” Gansey huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re still on top of me.”

“I’ll get off.”

“Then we won’t be able to ignore it.”

“It’s fine.”

“These pants don’t-”

It’s the second time tonight that Gansey’s interrupted. Ronan knows it’s cliche and cuts him off with a kiss anyway. Gansey deepens it.

Ronan pulls back before it goes further; he needs to nip the burgeoning feeling in his gut.

“Gansey, I said it’s fine.”

This time Gansey is the one to tug the neck of Ronan’s muscle t-shirt toward his own chest, crush his lips to Ronan’s. Their mouths colliding clumsily.

They kiss like they didn’t fight. There’s passion in this. They develop a rhythm, their own language. Ronan’s lips initiate, and Gansey’s respond in kind. Ronan can’t deny that he’s put more power into this than he had to his punches all night. His forearms strain with the night’s exertion and the weight of holding himself up, but he can’t bring himself to break the kiss, not again.

Then Gansey lifts his upper body forward to sit up and Ronan becomes acutely aware of his thighs, straddling Gansey’s lap. Gansey’s hips seem to be moving of their own volition, seeking out the friction Ronan’s body provides. Their mouths are meeting again in continuous motion. Subconsciously, Ronan registers that this isn’t the first time he’s pictured this: sitting in the lap of a boy who wants his mouth, his mind, his hands, _him_. The interlocking of veins and muscle jump beneath Ronan’s fingertips as he trails them along the strain in Gansey’s neck.

“Ronan— come—“ It’s obvious Gansey doesn’t know what he’s asking for, and Ronan doesn’t know what he’s prepared to give.

“Yeah,” Ronan growls, and lays a palm on Gansey’s sternum, pushing his back to the mat, and steadying himself in the process. Gansey’s dick is hard where it touches his ass, separated by Gansey’s threadbare plaid pajama pants, and his own flimsy shorts. He looks down and there are worlds in Gansey’s eyes, surfaces blazing.

_Gansey on fire._

Ronan moves then. He grinds down so that Gansey’s cock thrusts against his ass and his own dick is trapped between their hard bodies.

Gansey’s moans die in his throat. Ronan brings one of Gansey’s arms up over his head, and leaves the other free to explore. That hand settles on Ronan’s hip.

The heat between them is stifling, hips working faster with every thrust. Gansey’s hands dip below the band of Ronan’s shorts, trying for purchase on the skin there. Ronan’s got his own head occupying the space between Gansey’s clothed collarbone and neck, pressing his lips against Gansey’s exposed throat where he’s got his head tilted back.

Their movements should be chaotic. They’ve never done this before, not with each other. That much is obvious from the silence of the room, penetrated only by their low moans. But every action is smooth as they grind together, the slide of Gansey’s dick back and forth along the curve of Ronan’s ass, his fingers bruising their shape into Ronan’s side.

“I want—” Gansey’s hips undulate as his voice breaks off. Ronan gets a hand around his own dick and loses rhythm, rolls his hips down to increase the pressure on Gansey’s cock. Gansey’s body stutters, and then he’s coming, sentence unfinished.

Gansey unravels beautifully, like the slow douse of lit gasoline, remnants of the fire still crackling in the shudder of his abdomen visible beneath the shirt that clings to his torso, his eyes turned upwards toward the ceiling, cock twitching from orgasm.

Moments later, Ronan comes too, with a groan. He has one hand down the front of his shorts and the other pressed firmly into Gansey’s shoulder, Gansey’s eyes on his the entire time.

He’s still astride Gansey’s hips, and he gives himself a second before he disengages, collapsing unelegantly into the space beside his best friend. Ronan’s chest heaves with the effort of every exhalation; neither one of them eager to interrupt the staccato rhythm of their breaths.

Of course it’s Gansey who tries.

“I—”

“It’s fine.”

Gansey gives a perfunctory nod.

It's not long before Gansey gets up. Soon enough, his form disappears from Ronan’s peripheral vision.

Ronan closes his eyes, lets his head thump against the cool mat  
  
_Don’t think about how much it will hurt._


End file.
